


love songs

by days4daisy



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Extra Treat, Geralt z Rivii is not Stupid, Jaskier | Dandelion is not Subtle, Love songs, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22529230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Then, Jaskier dies. Or Geralt kisses him.No, death is the more realistic option.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 232
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	love songs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/gifts).



> Hope you have a nice CB, Nary!

Jaskier is no stranger to being in love. It is the curse of an artist to be prone to depths of passion not experienced by other men. To create is to feel, and Jaskier feels with every last shred of his being.

The 'suffering in silence' bit is new, though. Jaskier is no stranger to flights of fancy, but he engages the targets of his affection without delay. As a traveling bard, Jaskier has no time to wait on slow romance. His expediency has led to rebuke at times, but a bold hand is often rewarded. For short stints, Jaskier stumbles into the type of passion that leaves a man full of song.

That is, until some unhappy partner chases him out with a knife and bloody threats.

Jaskier knows what it's like to love and lose. He is not as familiar with loving in secret. In unrequited passion festering in his gut like a growing sickness. But there have been many firsts in Jaskier's life since Geralt of Rivia entered it. The gnawing ache of unreturned desire is one more on the list.

There are plenty of reasons for discretion. Greatest among them is that Geralt is fucking terrifying. One false move may find Jaskier on the receiving end of worse than a fist to the belly. Jaskier is not even confident that Geralt likes men. (Though, why else would a witcher ask their faithful bard to rub chamomile onto their bottom? It's not as if Geralt is incapable of reaching the lovely thing himself.)

Lower on the list, but as important, is rejection. It is a bitter potion that Jaskier has swallowed more than once in his life, but it seemed easier then. The stakes were lower.

Now, well. Not knowing seems a kinder fate than Geralt turning him away for good.

So Jaskier contents himself the best way he can. He sings. Among his usual classics, Jaskier sprinkles in more flirtatious fare. Naughty barbs he pretends are for his latest one week fling. Jaskier's heart beats a bit faster when he sings of imagined sex out on the moor. He does his best to cool himself after with gulps of the coldest brew coin can buy.

It's as close as Jaskier can get, and it's a safe gamble. Geralt hates his singing anyway, doesn't even stay inside to listen half the time. When he does linger, his only comments are about the consequences of love sickness. "Is this one married?" he may say. Or, "No daggers in the back this week."

Jaskier laughs him off every time. He has this under control.

On cold nights, Jaskier revels when they can afford separate rooms. He bounds upstairs and unwinds with his own hand, dizzy with dreams of the witcher. Jaskier moans into his pillow as he pictures the great White Wolf between his thighs. Thank the gods for thick walls, most times he can't bite back Geralt's name. Jaskier lies dazed in the aftermath, drawing sticky fingers along his stomach.

It's fine. Jaskier is handling it.

As they walk, Jaskier strums his lute and plays with words of a new ballad. About a man dying of thirst under a high sun. Blistered by its lustful glare, throat parched and lips cracked. And oh, that sweet first drop of water…

Jaskier doesn't realize Geralt is staring at him until he breathes his final word. Geralt's eyes aim down at him from Roach. Jaskier smiles expectantly. "Could it be? More than three words of feedback for once? Go on, Geralt. I can take it."

"Hmm." Geralt's eyes stay on him, and he looks like he wants to say more.

With a tight frown, Geralt pulls Roach out at a fast enough gait that Jaskier cannot help but trail behind.

"You give the most heartfelt reviews," Jaskier calls after him. "Thank you so very much."

Inside, though, he sighs relief. He wasn't prepared for his heart to wilt quite yet. The day will come surely. It's like playing with fire in a way. But, though Geralt is the hunter among them, Jaskier likes his fair share of danger too.

He ambles along behind the witcher and his trusty steed, pining and strumming his lute. They stop sometimes for food, sleep, or killing things. But the bulk of their time finds them wandering the road. Jaskier fills the space with animated, one-sided conversation. Geralt, meanwhile, ignores him.

This is fine. Jaskier is ok.

At night, under the stars with fire warm on his face, Jaskier sings of love. The ache of it, how it burns through one's belly and no food or drink will satisfy. The world tastes dull next to those fine lips. His love's body warms better than any blaze. He melts at their touch, candle wax on the grass. Jaskier's fingertips tingle against the lute's strings. Tonight's dreams will be most enjoyable, for certain.

"Come here, Jaskier."

It's not that Jaskier forgets about Geralt, how can an artist forget their muse? But Geralt's said so little of late. Just sits on his side of their evening bonfire and broods.

Jaskier stands, lute in hand. "You like that one? I'm thinking of calling it The Very Long, Very Very Hard Night. Ring to it, eh?" Geralt stares with that scary face of his. Jaskier laughs. "Fine, you sourpuss. What do you need?"

"Put the damn lute down and come here," Geralt says. His voice somehow plunges to a lower octave.

"One day you'll admit that I'm your favorite bard on the whole continent," Jaskier swears. But he puts the instrument down. Geralt seems cross about something - well, more cross than usual. Jaskier moves to Geralt's side of the fire, his smile dampened by concern. "Talk to me, Geralt," he says, "What's going on?"

Before he knows what the hell is happening, he's off his feet and stumbling to the ground. Or, more specific, falling across Geralt's plentiful thighs. The cause of Jaskier's tumble is a hand hooked viper-fast under the waist of Jaskier's trousers.

Viper-fast hands...something to add to his next witcher song.

Jaskier flops with all the grace of a flailing toad. His arms thrust past Geralt's sides to the fallen stump at his back. His knees wind up in the dirt beneath Geralt's legs. Jaskier would lament his filthy silks if not for the stretch through his lower half. It stings hot and pleasant, and Jaskier barely catches the moan on his tongue.

Jaskier tries to remember if he's ever been this close to Geralt. Probably when Geralt slugged him on their very first adventure together. Ah, memories.

"You know, you'll give a simple bard the wrong impression if you grab his pants like that-"

Then, Jaskier dies. Or Geralt kisses him.

No, death is the more realistic option. There is no possible way the witcher has Jaskier engulfed in his strong embrace. Or that Geralt's mouth is feasting on his like he hasn't eaten in months. Jaskier thinks to remind Geralt that breathing is important but - what is air anyway?

"Sick of it," Geralt growls. The sound rumbles across Jaskier's lips like a plucked lute string.

Jaskier, in all his glory, gasps back, "Bloody hell - sick of _what_?"

"Your damn songs." Geralt punctuates with teeth dragged across Jaskier's lip. It hurts, fuck - hurts quite nicely.

Jaskier tries to recover with a shaky laugh. "You hate my singing so much that you'd shut me up with your mouth?" When he grins, he feels the soreness of his lips. "Clearly I need to serenade you more often."

Geralt looks like he wants to kill him. Which, frankly, isn't unusual. It's Geralt's hands on his back and his body jutting between Jaskier's legs that are harder to swallow.

"Your damn songs about _me_ ," Geralt mutters.

Jaskier could play innocent. He is, after all, Geralt's bard. Who else should he be singing of? But Geralt is far too smart, and close enough to break Jaskier's nose with a flick of his wrist.

Instead, Jaskier puts on a face of wide-eyed astonishment. "Look at you feeling your oats!" he crows. "Who knew you had such an ego on you? You, who claim to want or need nothing." He shifts his weight down for emphasis, but it's a terrible idea. Geralt is _right here_. Solid and stiff and...holy hell, massive.

Geralt looks like he wants to murder Jaskier, but Jaskier can't care. Sensation spikes up his spine, warm and sudden. "Fuck," he rasps without meaning to.

Before he can think of anything else to say, Geralt is kissing him again. Kissing him and grinding higher, filling the wide crease of Jaskier's legs. Jaskier splits open for Geralt like one of his monsters. Pleasure floods his belly and turns his breaths to drowning croaks.

Geralt cups his neck, handling him like a child's toy. Jaskier hisses, "Geralt - shit, are you trying to make me ruin my silks? These pants were expensi-"

It doesn't matter once Geralt kisses him again. Nothing much matters. There's _so much_ of him, which Jaskier never included in his less-than-secret love songs. But it makes so much sense. Geralt's size is transfixing. Even seated with Jaskier on top of him, Geralt is a snare that won't release. Not that Jaskier wants him to, ever.

Jaskier's heart speeds ahead, and the cool evening becomes sweltering heat. Jaskier's face blisters pink, and his hands shake on Geralt's clothes. In his hair. On his face. Everywhere he can reach.

"This is a nasty trick," Jaskier tells him, breathless. "If you're faking all this to shut me up, well-"

"Fuck off," Geralt grumbles, and kisses Jaskier again.

It's not exactly the poetry of Jaskier's songs or anything. But at the moment? Fuck poetry. This is far more stimulating.


End file.
